The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon
by fjun
Summary: What to do, when the remnant of the former Hero of Ferelden arrives on the doorstep of the Inquisition, unwelcome and untimely? A man twisted by the pragmatism of his Order and a severe cynicism developed during his absence. A man known by some to be a monster, yet others praise as a saviour. One thing is for sure, the balance of power will be taken to the axe and set on fire. AU.
1. At The Shores Of Time Itself

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_Welcome to the first chapter of my newest story _The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon_. This story will feature some AU elements regarding lore and story-wise. If you're averse to such things, please turn back now._

_The origin of the Hero of Ferelden in this fic will actually be kind of a blend between two already existing ones with my personal, twisted spin to it. Obviously, I won't tell you which, because that would just take all the fun out of it. For me and you, as a reader. _

_First chapter is kind of a prologue to the actual story and there to give you a taste of what to expect._ _If you've come looking for rainbows and happiness, then you'd better look elsewhere._

Edit on 11-March-2015: _made this chapter, previously the ninth, the first, because I felt it better to start the story off with. Sorry for any confusion._

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter I**

**At The Shores Of Time Itself**

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During the height of their empire, though they knew it not to be thus, they all simply presumed in their pride that it'd last now and forever for eons long uncontested, they gathered.

Each of them different. Yet, the same.

Seven of them. Masters in their craft, unparalleled in knowledge and power. Unequalled, they stood upon their pedestals in matters arcane. Together they'd enslaved an entire race of immortals and bound them to death itself.

Seven of them. All without a name to go by. Their identity not even known to the one standing next to them. Clad in monikers and aliases because they knew what lay ahead and it warranted caution.

Treachery. Is what lay before them, any heartbeat now. The Gods had whispered to them of this. The inevitable moment of betrayal. Only one of them could claim the seat of godhood and ascend to power. But seven of them were required to even get this far. Supplemented by a swirl of energies far beyond even their capabilities.

Slaves gave their lives, throats slit and oceans turned red. Priests and conjurers of lower standing surrounded them, their minds connected, thrumming and ebbing with the enternal song of power. An agglomeration of will was all it took for them to sunder the Veil guarding this world from the next.

Seven stepped through. The thousands others died of fatigue.

They walked the Fade like an alien beacon, not belonging. But the spirits had nothing to oppose them with. Their powers childish in comparison to the seven of them marching through their plane of existence, dead set on the glittering spires ahead.

By unearthly powers they glided to the very slopes of the heart residing in the midst of the Fade, beneath their feet could only be spied a yawning abyss of nothing filled with wisps of strange sorcerous currents.

They regained purchase, solid ground underneath. As far as anything ever could claim a state of solidness in this place.

Impenetrable shawls of darkness surrounded them.

No strange sun could be spotted, neither stars nor moon riding hard the wheel of time. Yet, in the distance, they made out glittering domes of midnight obsidian, even though black curtains surrounded them. They rose impossibly high, towering far away. Unreachable they seemed. But in the Fade everything was an illusion, warped imagery, twisted beyond recognition for any mortal soul.

Before them stretched a massive courtyard, no end in sight in either direction. Perfectly cut marble tiles, all of the same shape and size covered the entire expanse. They shimmered and shifted, as if with a life of their own, hurting the eyes after prolonged inspection.

Together they strode towards the blackened city. The echoes of their steps disturbed the air like thunder. On and on and on. Like cool waves lapping against a dark shore, again and again, relentless.

The seven of them arrived at an arched gateway, seemingly cut into the black keep's front. Perplexed, they looked around, at each other, seeking sudden wisdom which would not arrive. In their brashness they gathered a sliver of their combined might. From their fingertips it rolled out and clashed against the gateway. Nothing happened.

A whisper. A slight breeze. It faintly brushed their skin. Sent shivers wrecking through each of them.

And with that, the slender gate disintegrated into grain sized pieces and flew off. Simply gone. Like countless stars glittering in a myriad of blackish facets.

Inside, on a slightly raised dais, perched upon an unremarkable chair sat a man dressed in dark rags and shadows curling around him like thick clouds. A wide hood hid his face in the gloomy comfort of anonymity. One bony hand clutched the knob of a twisted wooden cane.

A low giggle escaped from the shadows on the throne, knowingly.

'I warmly welcome you all into my abode,' spoke the figure, giggled again. 'But you are intruding and thus must leave.'

The figure seated upon the throne gestured and all seven of them were cast out. Hit by a wave of terrible power far beyond what even an ocean of blood could achieve.

In that moment, one of the seven, a cartographer, an architect of this strange plane of existence, realised their defeat at the hands of a god.

Avitus of house Pavus screamed out his terror along his fellow magisters.

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_I presume most of you know what this is supposed to be. Oh, sense of mystery._

_Thanks for reading!_


	2. Those Who Once Were Friends

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. __Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes_.

_Enjoy._

Edit on 09-March-2015:_ omitted some things, changed others or rewrote them, restructured some paragraphs. All thanks to the generous advice of _Amytrine_. Go check out her work if you need a laugh after reading mine._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon**

**Chapter II**

**Those Who Once Were Friends**

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Lurking on an old bench in the corner, calmed by the absence of immediate light, Ringil drew on his wooden pipe. The richly flavoured Antivan weed tingled down his throat before curling up in his chest. He paused, holding his breath and appreciated the light-headedness as the tingle snaked upwards before settling at the back of his head. Wisps of grey flowed from his lips when he finally released the smoke and air trapped in his lungs.

Ringil's eyes swept over the crowded inn, ears taking in the constant babble of conversation and the horrid weather outside. Rain thrummed against the thick, coloured glass. Dimmed by brick walls, the wind howled outside through the vacant streets of the backwater village.

He'd just entertained a few of the snotty-nosed customers crowding the inn with a story of the Fifth Blight, using the weather to enhance the mood of his tale. Of course, he never mentioned the role he'd played at the time and, naturally, he tweaked a few details here and there.

The stocky innkeeper seemed to have taken a shine to him. Business had increased since Ringil showed up on her doorstep a few weeks ago. Most of the time people invited him for a drink or a hot meal after he finished one of his studied performances and the innkeeper allowed him to stay in the attic, free of charge. Even with a hay-filled mattress to sleep on or take company upstairs to. Not that any of the frequent customers were to his taste.

The wooden door creaked open, its iron hinges complaining with a wail.

A group of three entered. They were shrouded in heavy cloaks, covered in a glistening sheen from the harsh rain. Conversation dimmed to a hush or outright died, all around. The strangers approached the long fireplace inset into the flooring in the middle of the inn. Shuddering, they threw off their leather cloaks and shook themselves like wet dogs, ignoring the protests from the clientele nearest to them, none of them especially audible about it.

All of the newcomers were armed. Nothing unusual.

Ringil narrowed his eyes and put his pipe away. Languidly, he packed and gathered what few belongings he possessed and silently made his way to the door. Thanks to the group of armed men attracting every eye in the vicinity, Ringil succeeded without being spotted.

His fingers touched the handle, ready to break into an all-out sprint for the stable, he applied pressure.

'Oi!' A voice called out.

Ringil closed his eyes.

'Wouldn't recommend going out there right now. Weather's all shit. Better spend the night here, stranger.'

When he didn't turn around to neither answer them nor acknowledge their presence, they grew suspicious, shuffling on their feet.

'How 'bout you lout turn round and look at us. Show a bit of decency, will you,' said a second, accented voice.

Without intending to follow their outright hostile demand, Ringil spoke calmly, 'I believe that to be an ill-considered idea.'

He heard them spread out, nervously fingering the grips of their still sheathed weapons. They crept nearer, albeit hesitantly and with caution.

Seeing no sense in bailing out any longer, Ringil slowly turned around. He could, after all, settle this inside. No need to weather the thick downpour just yet.

The three armed men froze, eyes widening.

'Maker take me,' said the man with scarred and reddish gleaming skin nearest to Ringil. The other two stood at his flanks a few paces away, surrounding him in a half-circle.

Hands outstretched lightly, palms up, Ringil advised, 'Careful now, sers, no hasty movements, if you please. Unless you fancy a close-up look at the flooring.'

Unsurprisingly, they did not heed his warning. Ringil had to grudgingly admit, the agents Leliana sent searching for him were tenacious to the last man. Far more tenacious than those brats Alistair dispatched. Better trained, as well, but that was to be expected. After having cut about a dozen of them into bloody pieces many of them seemed out for something rather different than simply apprehending him.

They made their move.

Ringil's dwarven sihil hissed in its sheath and the single-edged blade glistened briefly in the dim light. Hysterical screams vibrated in the smoky air. Chairs toppled to the ground, scraping roughly over the floor, earthenware hollowly shattered into pieces.

The female proprietor of the inn stepped out of the adjacent kitchen, checking what all the hubbub was about. A shrill wail escaped her trembling lips at the sight of the with burn scars disfigured man's face split in half, leaking all kinds of fluids. His two companions lay on the floor, one motionless, the other writhing and convulsing, a dark puddle quickly spreading underneath him. The innkeeper shuddered, tried to regain her breath, bent over and vomited.

Ringil retreated towards the door, tense and alert. The sihil clutched in both hands, he smoothly swept it through the air. A shocked silence had settled. No one moved.

Ringil exited the building, threw up his hood and braced himself against the angled rain assaulting his face.

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'What are we doing here, Leliana?'

'Following a trail.'

Cassandra shuffled around in her saddle, clearly agitated by the current situation. The backwater smelled of freshly dug earth and horse shit, overlaid by the lingering odour of rain.

'This is a waste of time. We'd be better off looking somewhere else.'

'My agents were very clear on the matter.'

The tall women astride her horse besides her simply grunted. Leliana appreciated the silence. While the seeker was stout and no doubt loyal as well as brave her patience could run out very quickly. As could her ability to judge level-headedly.

After a few turns along the mud infested streets the _Hands of the Divine_ arrived. A small group of local guardsmen waited outside, leaning onto their halberds. Loudly voicing his complaints at being barred from entering the inn by two of her agents was a potbellied man with a weasely face. No doubt the captain of the local guard.

Leliana and Cassandra dismounted. Spotting the two women, each radiating a different aura of authority, the potbellied man stamped over towards them.

'I won't have this, you hear. This is a decent town, with decent folk. We want no troublemakers here.' He looked them over, their appearance grim. 'So, uh, you do whatever you came for. Quickly, if you please and leave us folk to our peace.'

Before Cassandra retorted or kicked the man down into the muddied street, Leliana said sweetly, 'That's all we're asking for, good man.'

He cocked his head, frowning at her. Then huffed and marched off, his entourage of bored guards after him. Without another word, Cassandra and Leliana entered the inn.

The air inside was heavy and rancid with residues of smoke and cheap ale, tainted by the stench of various bodily fluids. Other than a few of her cloak-covered agents rummaging through every nook and cranny of the tavern not a soul could be found. Even the innkeeper had willingly left. Glancing at the three corpses sprawled on the flooring Leliana understood why. Could be she'd never return at all, poor woman.

'Huh,' Cassandra supplied, helpfully.

'Not a waste of time, after all. Wouldn't you agree, Cassandra?'

The seeker scratched her neck. 'It appears so.'

Leliana beckoned one of her agents over. 'This was him.'

Cassandra looked at her sharply. 'How do you know?'

'I've seen him kill. It's messy.'

Cassandra glowered at the bodies. 'No doubt about that.'

The senior agent present finally made his way over towards them. He bowed slightly in greeting.

'What can you tell us?' Leliana said.

'Eyewitnesses described the culprit. Seems like him. Gaunt features, pale skin, iron-shot hair. One woman said "cats didn't like 'em, nasty fellow he was."'

They never did. But Leliana refrained from voicing that out loud.

'He supposedly killed them in the blink of an eye. But I believe that to be exaggeration. There's not much else, mostly rubbish.'

Leliana nodded and thanked the man who went back to his task of searching the place. Leliana walked around, taking in the gruesome sights. She kneeled besides one of the corpses, wrinkling her nose at the stench.

Cassandra, up until now her trained stoic self, approached and knelt opposite Leliana. The seeker caught her gaze, a question sparkling in her eyes.

'That wasn't exaggeration. Was it?' She asked.

Leliana pressed her lips together. 'No.'

Cassandra sighed, summing up Leliana's thoughts perfectly with a mere sound.

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_Thank you for reading! More to follow soon. Will try to writer shorter chapters but publish them regularly._

_Would you rather have the next chapter be about Ringil's origin and his involvement during the Blight, about his involvement during Inquisition or continue on with the current plot - inbetween, that is?_

_I'm curious, as to who of you recognises the name Ringil?_

_Also, reviews make me happy._


	3. Shrouded In Fate And Folklore

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes_.

_Feel yourself be thrown back in time. _

_On a small sidenote, I'll use the terms _Old Gods_ and _Elder Gods _interchangeably. I know they're technically called Old Gods. But, well. My story._

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter III**

**Shrouded In Fate And Folklore**

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The cold gnawed, deep down, nibbling at bone. Winter would soon be upon them and the ancient Tevinter fortress would become one of ice and snow. Even less hospitable than it was right now.

Violent winds howled through the decrepit stronghold, like a demon's high-pitched death cry. It assaulted every opening it could find, like legions of Darkspawn pouring inside, pressing through every nook and cranny. As if the cold wasn't already bad enough on its own the wind scythed through every layer of warmth without remorse as if sent by some deity of death by frostbite itself.

Such miserable conditions could sour even the most jovial person's mood.

His teeth an uncoordinated, quavery clatter, Alistair hugged his ramskin pelt tighter around his chest and neck, burying his flushed cheeks in the fur.

Embers spiralling high, not unlike fireflies, brothers and sisters of his huddled around large fires, shoulder to shoulder as if in formation. Hands were stretch towards the fire, rubbed together to coerce warmth back into the numb limbs. Men and women of the Grey, one and all. The Taint bound them beyond the confines of blood.

But tonight there was a strange cadence woven into the song shared among them.

Familiar, yet different.

Unlike anything he'd ever felt.

An eerie sound like molten iron to the heart, Alistair had never perceived anything alike. Not even after waking up from his most recent dreams about the Archdemon, clouded in a haze of distance. But they cleared more every night, signalling the approach of the tainted Elder God. Most of his comrades seemed ill at ease at the alien note tugging at the back of their heads, but none of them looked alarmed. So, Alistair tried to blend it out, succeeding only partially.

The junior Warden closely listened to the tales being told around the fire. Tales of bravery and sadness, of great heroes defeating incomprehensible evil, tales of a vicious world oblivious of its own lousy state. All covered up by morbidly dry humour and a joking blackness that sometimes felt like a punch in the gut.

When Duncan entered the circle of Wardens they welcomed him with friendly greetings and smiles, a few claps on backs were traded. Though, the few veteran Wardens among them seemed to share a conversation with their commander, unspoken, solely held by the stillness of bodies and the hardness of their eyes.

Alistair's blood stung shard-like needles of fire into his cool skin, the Taint burned, rabidly wailing in barely contained despair and madness. A ghastly apparition waited just outside the cone of light thrown by flickering flame. Only after a moment's contemplation aided by the strain of narrowed eyes, Alistair realised that he was looking at a fellow human.

Alistair nudged the Warden besides him in the ribs. 'Who's that?'

'Who?'

Alistair gestured with his head in the direction of the unpleasant looking newcomer from whence the odd note of the Taint originated.

The tattooed face of Imedhel followed his gaze and returned quickly after spotting where Alistair's interest lay. 'Ah,' said the Dalish-born, tightly. 'Him. He is called Ringil.'

'You know him?'

'Of him. Yes. I've heard stories from some of the veterans.'

'What did they say?'

The woodland-born elf shook his head and went silent, a pleading look in his eyes.

Alistair frowned. 'What is it?'

'It's not something I particularly wish to discuss.'

'Why not?' Alistair smirked. 'Warden secret, I presume?'

'Something like that. Even I've only hearsay. And the veterans aren't keen to spill anything of consequence either.'

'Well.' Alistair shrugged under his ramskin pelt. 'What have you heard, then?'

Imedhel snorted. Then said, 'That he was somehow chosen to be a Warden.'

'Aren't we all?'

Imedhel looked at him, his forest coloured eyes blazing with the reflection of fire and something else. 'If you're going to be a wiseacre, then why even ask?'

Sheepish, Alistair rubbed his neck. 'Sorry,' he said.

'Not by another Warden per se, but destiny. Don't look at me like that. You wanted to listen to hearsay. That's exactly what you get. Fairy tales and folklore mixed with Warden mysticism. Anyways, somehow he was singled out and chosen.'

Alistair chose to let it be. 'His Taint. It's, uh, different. You can feel it, too, right?'

Imedhel nodded, a bit squeamish. 'I can, yes. But, that, I know nothing about. You ought to talk to Duncan, maybe he'll tell you more. He has, after all, taken quite the liking of you, it seems.'

'What makes you say that?'

Imedhel simply chuckled and sauntered off, ostensibly in search of something hot to drink that'd warm his belly and addle his thoughts.

Alistair returned his gaze and stared into the fire, contemplating.

Fate.

Destiny.

Things Alistair had a hard time believing in. It wasn't fate that he'd been raised in a monastery from the age of ten, Arl Eamon did that. It wasn't fate that he escaped the miserable existence of a soon-to-be templar and lyrium addiction and who knew what else, Duncan rescued him from all that.

His gaze dragged itself out of reflectiveness, blurred shapes sharpened to normality again. And he found the gaunt stranger named Ringil, still hovering outside the circle of light like some spectral appearance, watching him with a feline glint in his eyes.

A shudder crawled down Alistair's spine and the unease settled somewhere inside his gut.

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Still overcome by a not so subtle shiver, though by now unsure whether it continued to snail through him because of his distraught state or the cold, Alistair pushed the tent's canvas aside with the heel of his palm. Left and right to the entrance, brazen bowls stood, a dim fire going inside, gifting the two Warden brothers on guard with a sliver of solitary warmth.

Duncan sat behind a worn folding table, on a camping stool. The Warden Commander searched through a staple of battered tomes and yellowed maps of the area, the other clutched on to a missive, in stark contrast with its expensive paper. He fondled his oiled beard in thoughtfulness, sunken deep into himself.

At Alistair's entrance he looked up, seemingly relieved, and greeted him with an avuncular smile.

'Alistair, 'tis good seeing you.' The Warden Commander sat the parchment aside. Duncan studied him. 'You seem ill at ease. Is something the matter?'

Alistair scratched his neck. 'I, uh, have a question. Several, in fact.' The admission spluttered out like ink from an overthrown bottle.

Duncan sat straighter and gestured for him to sit down. 'What weights on your mind?'

Alistair breathed out. A hotness clung to his chest and neck. Looking down, he scrambled for the right words. But they were slow to arrive. Deciding to either stumble over his words or not, be that as it may, he'd have to get it out eventually.

'The, uh, Warden who arrived with you tonight. Who is he?'

A kind look crossed Duncan's face. 'One of our Order's most senior members. And one of our best.'

'Is that why he's here?' Relief washed through Alistair. 'Because of his Calling? Will he be the one to strike down the Archdemon?'

Something of it must've rubbed off and entered his speech. Duncan frowned at him. 'His time has not yet come,' he said, flatly.

Alistair looked Duncan in the eye, his resolve shrinking by the heartbeat. 'I just thought . . . the Taint. It's so different in him. And I just . . .'

'He has always been different, Alistair.'

'Different how?'

Duncan sighed. His features were chiselled from stone, but his dark eyes reflected something far from that. What exactly escaped Alistair's grasp.

Throwing him a last odd sideway glance, Duncan said, 'Have you ever heard of the Law of Surprise, Alistair?'

Involuntarily, his eyebrows crept up, arching high in disbelief. He'd never taken Duncan for a man to care much for such fable. Not to think about actually accepting them as true.

'You mean like "you shall grant to me the first thing that comes to greet you"? That sort of . . . thing?'

'I can see clearly, that you do not believe in the custom.' Duncan shrugged, as if he'd been expecting such a reaction. 'Or the power it holds. The Chantry's earliest teachings even talk of it.'

'I know.' Alistair grimaced. 'I've been raised-'

'There and trained a templar. I realise that, Alistair. And I know you do not like to be reminded.'

'The why remind me at all?'

The Warden Commander folded his hands on the with scratch-marks littered table. 'Hard questions necessitate a hard way to acquire answers. Even more so if you seek the truth.'

Alistair deflated, the spark of anger dead. It just seemed improper, a waste of energy. 'What's this got to do with this Ringil?' Alistair winced, reprimanding himself.

Duncan merely looked amused. Better than the sombreness from afore. 'Who did you talk to?'

'Imedhel,' muttered Alistair.

'I see.' Duncan thrummed with his fingers. 'I assume he didn't know all that much.'

'No,' Alistair said, smirking. The elf often liked to seem all-knowing and wise beyond his years. Sometimes, he succeeded. 'No, he didn't.'

'Well, Alistair, it's at the heart of this whole discussion. Ringil has been chosen by the Law of Surprise. There are a few others like him among us. Brothers brought to us by the twisted curls of fate. Though they are dwindling in number. Often it's just empty talk of prophesy or a convergence of powers.'

A curious note entered Duncan's voice. If Alistair had to put his fingers on, he'd have said awed, but there was something else swinging there besides it.

'But, Ringil, well . . . he definitely is different.'

'Different how?' Alistair felt ridiculous for asking the question a second time. Like a boy, again, not fully understanding what his Chantry tutor tried to tell the class.

Duncan pressed his lips together. 'Even I know only half of it. Or so I presume. But,' he said, apologetic, 'that is not for me to tell. I am sorry, Alistair. I know you came here expecting answers. But, Ringil, he's . . . a complicated man. His trust isn't given easily. And I'd not want to abuse it. In time, maybe, you'll find out on your own.'

Alistair spend a few heartbeats in silence. Knowing full well that Duncan's intense gaze studied him. Then, he said, 'I . . . understand.'

Alistair made to leave. Wanting to sort through the mess inside his head, this whirlwind of questions and ambiguity. It'd take time to rummage through the baggage and make sense of it.

'You will,' said Duncan as parting words.

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_Just who is this Ringil? Or what? Stay tuned._

_Thanks for reading!_


	4. The Stone First Thrown

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes_.

_I want to thank all of you for reading, reviewing, faving, following and PM-ing me. It just means so much to me and keeps me going!_

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter IV**

**The Stone First Thrown**

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The news arrived.

A ripple cursed through the entire Grand Cathedral and further outwards into the city. The illusion of peace and problems far, far away shattered into thousands of tiny shards. Each reflecting back upon one's own immoral actions and thoughts, the proclivity towards a benumbed state of callousness for everything not immediate.

The City of Chains was lost to the mages.

Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard driven into madness and beyond.

The city subjected to demonic hellfire and chaos.

A name uttered silently in dark streets and painted onto corners. A mere whisper, a martyr. An icon to his people, a rallying cry that would lash out and tear a bloody chunk out of Thedas. Maybe even tear off a limb.

Anders.

Anders.

Anders . . .

Leliana knew the name. But no sense came from the knowledge. First Ringil disappeared to Maker only knows where. And now this.

The discussion with Divine Justinia had been tense and short. Damage control was now their top priority. Or the fire would spread all over the known world and consume everything alive with the mad rage of decade-long suppressed and abused magi.

Cassandra had been sent off immediately to Kirkwall. Three templar legions in tow, three thousand blades ready to descend upon uprising necks. Cleanse the city of heresy. Or, at least, stop the magi from tearing everything into anarchy. Leliana prayed that Cassandra would arrive in time before the rest of Thedas caught a whiff of the situation and followed down. Spiralling down into darkness, descending into a pit they might never again crawl out of.

A show of excessive force, an Exalted March in everything but name. Proof to the world that the Chantry was still the will guiding the Circle of Magi.

Walking the hidden passages of the Grand Cathedral to calm the storm raging inside her mind, Leliana didn't outright hear the runner approaching her.

She flinched. And, afterwards when she was alone again, chided herself for her lack of vigilance.

'Sister Nightingale.' The boy bowed. Barely a few fluffy hairs on his cheeks. He caught his breath.

'There is a man looking for you.'

Leliana turned her full attention towards him. 'Who?' The boy took a step back, slightly concerned it seemed.

'He didn't give a name.'

'Then, by what name did he ask for me?'

He shook his head. 'No name. He, uh.' The boy blushed, flustered. Leliana stayed silent. 'Uh, he asked for the enticing, redheaded . . . uh.'

'Come, now. Out with it,' urged Leliana, voice genteel. Nothing to be afraid of.

The boy dared the leap, hoping he'd not fall too far or jump too high and be burnt by the proximity to the sun. 'Bard. The enticing, redheaded bard.'

Leliana pursed her lips.

'Flattering.'

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Leliana entered the private chapel. Incense and the warming odour of oiled cherrywood hung in the air like an invisible blanket. Every fibre of her being screamed against the comfort it lent. She needed to be attentively in the moment, not carried off into memory and meditation.

Lances of waning light streamed through the slim, mosaicked windows comprising the back of the room. Changing the light to a pale array ranging from golden to violet and everything in between with its artfully coloured glass.

A carved statue of Andraste towered high and imperious opposite the entrance, at the far end. She cupped her hands, and flames danced inside, undying, soundless. A crown of gold adorned her head. She spared the rows of banks a soft look.

In front of the humble altar a whip-lean person kneeled in prayer. Clad in expensive green leathers.

'Zevran,' Leliana greeted.

He shushed her with a hiss. Leliana folded her arms, cocking her hip, brow arched up.

After a few heartbeats the elven assassin rose silently and turned towards her. He dusted himself off, even though it was obvious that there was nothing to be dusted off.

Zevran smirked playfully. 'What a coincidence, Leliana dear, to meet you here, of all places.'

'Quite.' His wry smirk washed off. 'What were you doing?' asked Leliana, interested despite her knowing better.

'Considerate of you to ask. I was praying, of course.'

Leliana didn't even try to mask her doubt. 'Praying.'

'Yes. I've decided to turn myself wholly over and into the Maker's arms. May he spread them and grant me three of my most secretive desires.' Zevran smiled at her.

'You shouldn't go around mocking other people's faith just because you believe in nothing but yourself, Zevran.'

He placed both hands over his heart, as if clutching a wound. A wounded hiss escaped him. 'Oh, but Leliana, what use is a god who answers only with silence? Who treats my every wish and request with disdain?'

Leliana looked around. 'How did you get in here?'

Zevran blinked at her. 'Why, through the same door you entered.' He gestured. 'How else?'

'I mean the Grand Cathedral.' She narrowed her eyes. 'Armed, no less.'

Zevran sighed miserably. 'How you've changed, sweet Leliana. It saddens me.'

'And you haven't changed. At all.' A surge of anger soured her emotional turmoil, still reeling from the news from Kirkwall. The envy burned deep inside her, a part of Leliana loathed Zevran for not having changed. The absence of personal need to change. Or maybe he simply didn't care about the world. Just like Ringil.

'Thank you,' beamed Zevran.

Leliana pressed down on the well, sealed the gushing spray. 'What do you want?'

The former Crow began pacing in front of the humble altar. 'Well, the question is rather, what I can do for you. You sent men looking for me after all.' He tapped his lips. 'Oh, by the way. All three of them are in the templars' dungeon. It was very hard, sneaking them all inside, unconscious. Took me three days of patience and hard work.' He shrugged. 'But no one around here seems very attentive of their surroundings right now.'

'So,' said Zevran, serious, 'what do _you_ want?'

Outplayed, Leliana glared daggers at him. 'Ringil. I need to find him,' she said, clipped.

'Hasn't he done enough?'

'Some might say that of him.' It sounded twisted as she spoke, vile. It'd slipped out. Careless. 'Others not.'

Zevran's features turned to stone, became a motionless mask. 'You judge him. Like everyone else. For his deeds and his being. Have you ever thanked him for what he's done for you?' Leliana had meant to, in so many ways. But everything was left unsaid, buried like the body of a dead friend. Amidst tears unshed hidden behind smiles and laughter as well as tears shed during the silence of the night, a scratchy blanket for companionship. 'Did anyone else? I can't seem to remember right now. Only strange looks and snide comments to drive him off. And he just bore it without complaint because he didn't know better. So, how about you come off that high horse of yours with your demands.'

The elf had advanced on her, just a few paces away. Leliana had to ask. 'Have you seen him? I . . . just want to–need to talk.'

'I haven't.' Liar. She wanted to slap the elf. For everything.

Zevran stood beside her now, shoulder to shoulder. Each of them facing different directions.

'Don't come looking for either of us, Leliana. You know how it'll end. Next time I won't return your agents. Not alive.' With that he strolled towards the door of the chapel.

'How can you two be so selfish!' Leliana's voice climbed in anger. 'Turn away from the world as if you're no part of it! How!?'

Zevran kept on walking without a glance back.

Vanished behind closing doors.

Leliana thudded down onto the bench closest to her and buried her face in her arms.

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_How far will Leliana go? What did Ringil do?_

_Edited Meredith's title. Slipped by me somehow._

_Thanks for reading!_


	5. Toll Of Times Past And Deeds Done

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes_.

_And here we are, at the dawn of the Inquisition. Still struggling from the difficult circumstances of its birth. Untimely, the past comes knocking._

_As you might've already picked up on, I'm going to handle three different chain of events. DAO - to explore Ringil's backstory, how he dealt with the Blight and his biased outlook on the world then. The time between, essentially DAII (though not the actual events of the game just at the same time) to picture, well, the time between and all he went through and how he as a person changed from Warden to something else. And this one, the Inquisition part, where he's become a bitter and cynic embodiment of his past self._

_ Tell me which you'd rather want next. I'll try to always have one prepared and let you decide. If you want._

_Also, I want to thank all of you for reading, reviewing, faving, following and PM-ing me. It means everything to me as a fanfic author! It's like a drug to me._

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon**

**Chapter V**

**Toll Of Times Past And Deeds Done**

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Back straightened, her posture a depiction of grace reincarnated, the former Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais and the rumoured to-be First Enchanter of Montsimmard skimmed through a thick tome, its pages yellowed by the passage of time and the absence of touch. To anyone passing it'd look as if the book's arcane subject was as trite as last year's snow. Piles of ink-stained missives and letters littered her table in a scrupulously arranged and angled way. Everything had its designated place. The dots and blobs of dried ink were a nuisance, though. A hideous mar which scarred her workplace into imperfection.

A sorcerous tug pulled at the back of her head.

It left a foul taste in her mouth, of ash and death and . . . blood. Vivienne froze. She carefully stretched out her magical feelers, questing for the source of this affront. And she recoiled in horror upon contact. At the blackness, freezing to the touch. Her heart quickened. She had to-

The great wooden doors separating Haven's Chantry from the chill reigning outside and the unforgiving elements creaked open, metal hinges stuttering in protest.

Vivienne jerked around at the noise of intrusion.

An Inquisition soldier walked inside. There was an oddness to his gait as if slightly drunk. Now that wouldn't do, not while on duty. But her immediate thought to reprimand the man was nullified by the one trailing behind.

And the connection simmering between them.

Vivienne silently rose out of her chair, tense.

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'Would you kindly inform Sister Leliana of my arrival.'

The ensorcelled scout bowed. 'Certainly, milord.' He stalked off, still firmly in the clutches of Ringil.

Crossing his arms behind the small of his back, Ringil settled into a parade rest. The movement returned easily, as if never forgotten and buried deep. He hauled it out like a mocking remark saved up for just the right occasion.

Those few which crowded the insides of the Chantry talked in hushed whispers, glancing over their shoulders warily since his arrival. He looked around and where his inhumanly pale eyes wandered, heads were lowered. Ringil never really found out if it was his eyes or his appearance which revolted people to avert their gaze.

Ringil cocked his head. 'Why linger in the shadows?' He took a swift step forward, now able to peek around one of the thick supporting pillars to his left. 'Prove yourself a braver soul than your fellows.'

Illuminated only by the flicker of a dim candle an ebony woman watched him like a hawk. Her full lips where pressed into a tight line, thought that didn't achieve much. The rest of her face was all severe angles and cunning shrewdness. Right hand bended slightly, with her palm flat she leaned against the scratchy stone of the pillar. A slight twitch around his eyes taunted Ringil's skin.

'I'm one to think before acting, my dear.' Her tone sounded distinctly patronising.

Ringil turned his head in her direction. 'And what have your thoughts yielded?'

'Nothing conclusive.' Her hand crept along the pillar.

Ringil smirked. 'A shame, that.'

The ebony-coloured woman indicated with her shaved head to the left. 'What have you done with him? The soldier.'

'I couldn't possibly imagine your meaning. But I think you know.' He turned to her fully, balanced on the balls of his feet. 'You're not going to need that.'

'Need what?'

Ringil smiled nastily and elicited the desired reaction. 'Your staff. Don't take me for a fool, mage. It'd be the wrong choice.'

'I'll be the judge of that,' she drawled, hiding well her emotions.

Ringil laughed. 'It seems to me, good woman, you're the judge of nothing. Or even less. You're simply stalling.'

Her skin took on a barely noticeable pallor. The slightest of flushes.

'O, don't look so surprised. I'm just curious as to who will arrive at your magical, and might I add of desperation tasting, call for help.'

Ringil sneered at her. Something shifted inside him, drove away patience like an angry mob of peasants with pitchforks and torches. 'Either you now grab that fancy little staff of yours and be clear about your thoughts, your judgment as well as your intentions or you remove that impeccably manicured hand of yours out of reach.' He shrugged. 'But weigh your options with care. You do seem to like to do that.'

She mustered herself and some remnant of her courage, if the squaring of her shoulders was any indication. Her voice resonated sweetness, nonetheless. 'Now, listen, my dear, whatever-'

'I'm not your dear.'

Indignation flashed over her sharp features at the interruption, an iron look crossing her eyes. 'Whatever,' she started again, slowly, 'this is supposed to be, whatever you're planning with this little display of yours. Look around. Think again. Where you are.'

The resignation in his voice wasn't feigned. 'I've thought long and hard. Alas, always the same conclusion.'

Footsteps approached, mail rustled at the hastened pace. Ringil took a few steps away from the ebony-coloured sorceress, walked further into the Chantry and turned to face the newcomers. By now, everyone inside the building attentively tracked his every move and eavesdropped on every word he spoke with healthy unease.

'Enchanter! What's the meaning of . . . this . . .' Upset about the flippant pulse of magic which led him here, the templar's eyes landed on Ringil and settled there, widening before growing hard. Ringil remained still, merely observing Cullen's hands and how they snapped to the grip of his longsword at the sight of him.

'Maker fend,' he uttered.

'Careful now, Ser Cullen, no hasty movements, if you please. Or you'll have to search for your hand on the floor.' Ringil looked over. 'The same goes for you, enchanter.'

'What in the Maker's name are you doing here?' Cullen growled, riled up. Unbelievable. But what did he really expect? He'd saved the templar's life. Where was some fucking gratitude? Where the bootlicking? Would be a nice start.

Ringil smiled helplessly. 'Just visiting.' Then clicked his tongue. 'Now, now, Cullen. What did I just say?' Gesturing with his head, Ringil indicated at his shoulder and the pommel jutting over it. 'Even if you believe elsewise, but that sword can leave its sheath faster than you might anticipate.'

Cullen's fingers taunted, tightening the grip on the hilt, readying to draw. Ringil sighed inwardly. Why did it have to be this way? Everywhere he went, it was becoming rather pesky, this general attitude of distrust and unveiled hatred people displayed towards him. Only because-

'Enough!' A voice pierced the air, calmly, yet heard in the entire building. 'Cullen, where I in your stead I'd heed his words.'

'But-'

'No, but. Commander. We do not need this right now. Enchantress Vivienne, thank you for your foresight in alerting Ser Cullen, but it'll prove unnecessary in the end.' A pause. 'Won't it, Ringil.'

He turned around and faced the petite redhead. Ringil plastered on a fake pout. 'They started it.'

Under her breath, Leliana uttered, 'Andraste guide me.' Then, she said aloud, voice flat, 'Why have you come here? Now of all times.'

'I heard you were looking for me. But it seems you managed just fine.' Ringil spread his hands. 'But this is no discussion to be had in these sacred halls.' He gazed around. 'Among such lofty company.'

Leliana threw a scything look over Ringil's shoulder. Probably to silence any retort from Cullen. Maybe even the enchantress, Vivienne, but Ringil couldn't care less.

Leliana waved. 'Follow me.'

His smirk wasn't fake.

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Leliana, quiet as a man approaching the block, walked him further into the Chantry building. Then, down a flight of stairs. Outwardly, she appeared unconcerned. But Ringil's eyesight picked up a few things normal humans wouldn't. Miniscule shifts and the tensing of muscle. The way she turned her head just by a millimetre. The feigned carelessness of her step, cloaking the lightness veiled behind it, ready to round on him and punch a dagger in his armpit.

Torch fire bounced of tarnished iron bars, the pitiful bundles of meat and hopelessness inside barely visible, covered up by dirtied rags comparable to rotten, hole-riddled cheese. Even the smell was similar.

'O,' Ringil drawled. 'The dungeon. How witty.'

Hands behind her back, Leliana turned towards him, face shrouded in shadows by her hood. 'Just in case, should I decide to throw you inside. There's good company to be had,' she said, deadpan.

Ringil looked around as if he cared. For appearance's sake.

'Now,' Leliana continued heatedly, tempered steel in her voice. 'What. Are. You. Doing. Here.'

Ringil clutched down on the well of emotion trying to claw free. The burning rage churning his stomach. The silent howl ready to escape him. Years of Warden doctrine managed to hide it behind a layer of apparent stoicism.

'I'm surprised you have to ask.'

Her expression turned irritated. 'Are we now playing this game? Really.'

'I hear the Left Hand of the Divine knows everything.'

He struck a nerve. It flared up in her eyes. A side of her he'd nearly forgotten. 'Because I don't play games. And I'm the Left Hand of the Divine no longer. So either you tell me. Or you can leave.' Leliana glared.

'You were looking for me. Hunting me. For nine years.'

'I was never hunting you. I . . . we wanted your help.' She made it sound as if she couldn't believe her own choice of words.

'Well, then your agents either spoke another language than you or were just fucking stupid.'

'You weren't exactly welcoming upon meeting them.'

Ringil turned his flickering temper into sarcasm. 'That's because they didn't ask nicely.'

Leliana sighed. The first real expression she allowed herself. Or maybe it was a double bluff. 'Listen, Ringil. My intention was never for . . . things to happen as they happened.'

He grew still. 'You just did what was necessary.'

'I had to. But if you-'

Leliana might've been a trained Orlesian bard and a very good one at that. But there were just some things even she couldn't do.

Inaudible steps, barely in the blink of an eye, and Ringil was onto her. The heat radiated off her skin, bodies close like long forgotten lovers. Eyes wide, he felt the breath parting her rosy lips. But there was nothing intimate about this. Reflexes honed by years of Grey Warden training and his tainted mutant blood deftly swatted aside the dagger which appeared in her slim hand with a brutality that broke bone. A short scream of pain. His free hand grabbed Leliana by the throat and applied enough pressure to bruise. Silence, besides the desperate gasping.

Forcing her back, Ringil practically threw her against the bars of the cell behind her. The hood was thrown back by the dull thud her head produced when it smacked against the iron rods. Her cheeks and forehead were already flushed by the lack of oxygen. Weakly, she clawed with her free hand at Ringil's arm choking the air from her lungs, the other, broken one still locked by his grip. Leliana whimpered.

Ringil leaned down to her until their noses nearly touched. 'Don't fucking tell me you had to!' The venom in his voice paralysed her, even near death. Their gazes locked. The pleading in them was like nectar to him. He drank deep, fuelled his hatred with it. 'There's no excuse for what you did.'

Ringil tightened his grip, felt the life flee her petite body.

He stared in her eyes. Careful to savour every moment. Every movement of despair.

Then Leliana's eyes glazed with an odd note.

Acceptance.

Forgiveness.

Pity.

And Something else entirely.

Ringil hesitated. Frowned at her expression.

His frown turned into a wail of agony. Like a whip, Leliana lashed out and kicked him between the legs. His nerves came alight with liquid flame. Ringil crumpled like a dead sack of meat.

Of course, it'd been all a ruse. Masterfully played.

Freed from his chokehold, the former bard fished a second dagger out of another hiding spot from within her attire. Before Ringil could recover from the crushing blow, Leliana straddled him at the hip. Even broken, the petite redhead bit through the pain and pressed one thumb just under his right eye, coiled to scratch out the eyeball.

Steel tickled the stubble covering his throat. One move and she'd open his jugular. And he'd be done for. It drained from him like a tidal wave, leaving him empty, bereft of any will. Ringil's arms slumped to the side in defeat.

Her gaze didn't waver when he looked at her. 'Come now, Lel. Be done with it. Remember, hesitation will get you killed.' Hah. Good one. Jokes on him, then.

'Don't call me that.'

'You always seemed to like it when-'

'Don't.' Leliana hissed. It cut far deeper than any weapon could ever hope to accomplish. It stuck a sensation, a sound, to the yawning abyss between them, the gaping emptiness. The years gone by, pissed away.

Ringil grunted. 'Go on, then. You've no need for me any longer, I see that. And I wouldn't try to better this cesspool of a world and the filth inhabiting it if you'd torture me to death. But you've already accomplished that, as well.' He chuckled, hesitated. 'Just tell me why.'

'Why, what?'

He told her.

And Leliana's world crumpled, liquefied and slipped through her grasp.

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_Seems Leliana went too far. But what did she do?_

_Thanks for reading!_


	6. Measures Taken Among Those Adrift

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes_.

_It's always so gratifying to wake up the day after I've posted a new chapter and see how many of you guys read, reviewed, fav-ed and followed it or PM'ed me. I love you all. You are the fuel that drives this story forward. _

_Also, Morrigan gives a lecture._

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter VI**

**Measures Taken Among Those Adrift**

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Lothering lay just a few bells' worth of time behind them. But, already, the darkening sky was painted with thick pillars of black smoke.

At Ringil's behest they'd diverted from the Imperial Highway leading them away from Ostagar and through the overgrown Hinterlands. No one had complained.

'He doesn't talk much, does he?'

Alistair looked over at the red-haired lay sister. Well, former lay sister. She sat cross-legged, regarding him with a general kindness etched into her heart-shaped face. Unslung her double-curved longbow with fastidious care.

Alistair looked outside the small cave, more like a stone canopy carved into the rock, barely able to shelter their ragtag entourage. Narrowing his eyes, he dared the heavy downpour to answer the question, offer an opinion, because he couldn't, not really. But the quiet and cold offered no solace, no sudden wisdom. Only rain. And staccato beats of violent thunder distant and near, like Avvar wardrums signalling the approach of battle.

Alistair managed a shrug, warmed by the fire. 'I guess not.'

'You guess?' The wilder witch asked, incredulous. 'Is he not a Warden? Like you are supposed to be?'

'What's "supposed to" supposed to mean?'

Morrigan sniffed. 'I'm just not convinced of the fact, is all.'

'Well, I'll prove it to you.'

The arch of her brow went up delicately. 'How?'

'Uh.' Alistair rubbed his neck. Convinced of the repartee, he answered, 'You tell me.'

Rolling her eyes, Morrigan groaned. 'The magnitude of hope is rather bleak if you are who survived of all the Wardens possible. Reflects highly upon your famed Order.' Sarcasm oozed thickly from her voice.

The snide comment stung, poured a familiar hotness into his chest and tore up his insides at the memory zipping through his mind. Alistair's head slumped forward, chin tucked against chest in the painful indulgence of sorrow. The vicinity washed away as if the rain outside managed to clean him off the world like dirt, just another stain among many. Yet, somehow, one of the last of his kind. Alistair barely registered the reprimand Leliana sent the wilder witch's way and her likewise sneering retort. He couldn't even dredge up a feeling of gratitude at Leliana's defence, out of the muddied swamp he found himself in, surrounded by the spectres and corpses of the fallen. Silence their cry, death given voice in absence of life. Trying to drag him down towards their cold grave, they suffocated him, clawed at him. And he sank deeper, willingly. Until he reached a clearing of numbness where everything subsided to a dull throb. Every flash of sensation rolling of him.

'Hand me your blade,' Morrigan said, politely.

Leliana blinked. 'What for?'

'His depressive mood is infectious,' Morrigan declared, voice artificially high-pitched. 'I can already feel it. And I'd rather end myself than wallow and wither like him. It's positively pathetic.'

The former lay sister of Lothering ignored her, changed the subject. 'Has he spoken to you, Morrigan?' The name rolled off with an odd taste out of Leliana's mouth, as if she were trying it, weighting it. Like a dress long not worn.

Morrigan ostensibly sighed at being denied a swift end. 'Not beyond the most necessary. No.'

The hulking, grey-skinned form of Sten, up until now sharpening a massive broadsword already razor-sharp, spoke up, 'You women and your talk.'

Morrigan appeared delighted. 'You are correct. Alistair is a woman. It seems. So fragile. So obsessed about himself.' Alistair mustered a return volley, but refrained from firing it, finding it useless and a waste of energy best conserved.

Sten rumbled on, 'There is nothing to talk about.'

'But how are we to travel together? Trust each other like that. Knowing next to nothing.' Leliana appeared slightly discomforted.

Sten stopped grinding the whetstone over the edge of his blade to peer at her from beneath wrinkled brows. 'Talk is not needed. Actions speak. Words are just air.'

'He is a Warden. Does his duty in silence. He should be an example to you.'

The diligent way with which the qunari returned to the task at hand echoed with finality, the conversation or, at least, his part in it, finished.

'Alistair.' He didn't react, content to linger bell upon bell until the day ended and the next began, till the very end of time when the Maker would crack open the heavens and walk mortal soil to lead Man into a brighter age than that of Dragon.

Besides him, Leliana gently grabbed his shoulder. Careful, as if she handled a precious artefact, which might crumble to age-old dust upon contact with the warmth of life. 'Alistair,' she repeated.

In his mind, something indiscernible squelched as he heaved himself out of the gassy swamp trying to swallow him whole and devour his soul. Alistair looked up at her, saw his own sadness reflected on her features.

'What can you tell us about him?' The hand left his shoulder, empty, alone, cold. He wanted it there again. So he talked, hoping.

'Well, he's a Grey Warden like me but, uh, different. Somehow. But I don't know how exactly. Dunc- . . . The Comman- . . . That is, I heard he was somehow chosen to be a Warden. But not by a recruiter or something like that. By the Law of Surprise.'

Morrigan jerked up. 'What did you just say?'

'Uh, by the Law of Surprise. I know. Complete humbug.' He tried a smirk, failed miserably. The stretched skin felt as if he wore another's face.

'Humbug!' Morrigan proclaimed, then sighed. 'Ah, you civilised people. Knowing less than nothing about the world and its workings. How I pity and envy your collared intellect.'

The wilder witch leaned forward. 'You see, the Law of Surprise is as ancient as mankind itself, probably even older. Might be even the grand elvish folk of millennia afore knew of its power.'

'I've read of it in the past. In Chantry books,' Leliana added.

Morrigan nodded, mouth awry. 'I'm sure your precious Chantry snatched up the custom sometime. More important is the forces that can conspire if the custom is applied correctly. A convergence of powers from beyond the Veil swirl around the chosen object or person. Some call it fate or destiny, others heritage of the blood, others again might ascend to the title of prophet or something of similar ilk. In the end 'tis nothing but the primal forces that drive and shape our plane of existence and every beyond, known and unknown in ways none of us can ever hope to comprehend.'

'You just said a lot without saying anything, at all.' There was no real edge to Alistair's input, not like he'd planned to.

Morrigan gestured dismissively. ''Tis not something easily described. Especially to a dimwit like you. But we digress. If our venerated leader is, actually, a Child of Fate singled out by the Law of Surprise as according to the ancient custom, then I've no doubt of his difference to normal men.' It seemed she wanted to say more, but refrained from doing so, an undecipherable glint in her amber eyes.

'We'd better start calling him by his name, even when absent, or we'll fall into a rather rude habit,' Alistair supplied, faintly amused at the notion.

'Ringil,' said Leliana.

'Got it in one, sister. Rolls off quite easy, doesn't it.' When only silence came as an answer, Alistair looked over. Found Leliana staring over his shoulder. Aw, crap. Just his fumbling kind of luck and bad timing.

Alistair turned around and sure enough there stood Ringil in the wide cave's entrance, regarding the whole group with a flat look. His hooded leathern cloak glistened with a wet sheen. A few strands of curled, black hair clung to his pale face.

Heartbeats passed into the uncomfortable, till the ranking Senior Warden averted his empty gaze, turning it towards the Witch of the Wilds.

'Morrigan,' he said, and Alistair once more flinched at the metallic cadence of his voice. 'I'll need you to scout out the road ahead.'

'What?!' The wilder witch asked, indignant, nearly shrill. 'Just how am I suited for such a mundane task? No less, during such a preposterous weather. Why not send our resident choir boy? I'm sure he'd be delighted.'

Alistair frowned at her.

'Because, Alistair, cannot shapeshift.'

The frown turned into outright shock, mouth agape and eyes widened. Leliana appeared to be claimed by a similar state of mind. Sten just mumbled something what strongly sounded like a curse under his breath.

Morrigan cocked her head, a curious expression dancing over her features. 'How did you know?'

'Your scent.' Morrigan just laughed heartily at the answer, apparently delighted at something Alistair would consider an insult. 'Very well,' she said, 'I shall speed to your will.'

Leliana and Alistair looked at each other, their expressions once again mirrored.

Morrigan rose, then stretched her long-limbed body. An aggressive spicy scent filled out the cave. Black-feathered and golden-eyed the raven flapped out of the cave and disappeared in the dreary downpour.

Shaking off his drenched cloak, Ringil hunched down at the fireplace, hands outstretched.

Sten handed him a bowl of hare stew boiled in cheap red wine from the pot affixed above the flames. Gratefully, Ringil nodded and began to devour the contents.

All in well-known silence.

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_What do you guys think of the three simultanious arcs? Love it, loathe it? Tell me._

_Thanks for reading!_


	7. Do What You're Good At

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

Warning: _this chapter will contain implied gay content, bordering on the sexually explicit. If you're averse to such things, please turn back _right_ now. If you don't read this warning and complain afterwards. Screw you._

_Everybody's got to live off something, right? Ringil and Zevran are just good at fighting. And killing. I though it time you guys deserved some action again._

_On a further note: I'm not really sure that I'll be able to keep up the pace at which I'm posting chapters, because next week my holidays end and it'll be back to stressful normal. But I'll try to, at least, post one or two chapters per week. More, if I can. We'll see how it goes._

_Once more, thank you all so much for your continuous support. I just hope I'll be able to live up to your praise! Now and in the future._

_Wish you all a wonderful weekend!_

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter VII**

**Do What You're Good At**

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A content purr drifted up from his now flaccid crotch.

Arms folded behind his head, Ringil stared at the ceiling. Critically eyed the indecent relief carved from pale wood. A debauched scene, two stable boys and a well-endowed wench, doing something indecent with a fable creature, a blend between horse and human.

'You'd think someone would get arrested for this,' uttered Ringil.

'Ah, _mon amour_. It was breath-taking. Not _that_ good, but we can try again. Maybe we manage to wake the entire town this time.'

'Fuck you, Zev.' Ringil looked at the dusky elf pillowed on his naked belly. 'I was talking about the ceiling.'

The former assassin gazed up as if he'd noticed the relief for the first time. 'Well, it's a good thing, then, that the templars only hunt mages and the Chantry refuses to even speak about it.'

'Yeah. Openly,' commented Ringil, sourly.

Ringil could feel Zevran's gaze rest on him, drilling into his sweat-covered flesh, trying to strip bare all the secrets that lay beneath.

Zevran propped up on his elbows. 'Why all the fretting?'

Ringil grimaced. 'I don't know. It's just . . .' This leaking sense of bitterness, more fucking bitterness, soaking through the same old general, swirling sense of betrayal. Betrayed by those he called friends, brothers and sisters. And it all boiled down to who, what he was and what he did. As always, as ever. He should've come to expect it. But somewhere along the way he'd fallen victim to hope. Deceitful little hope, what a prick. 'I don't know,' said Ringil, not wanting to spread out all that troubled his mind.

Instead, Ringil asked, 'How did it go with Leliana anyway?'

Zevran stared at him for a few more heartbeats, evaluating, then shrugged and laid back on his fleshy pillow. 'As expected. We talked. Insults where hurled. Everything said in the end but the truth.'

'She believe you?'

'That I hadn't seen you?' The skin on Ringil's stomach stretched with the movement of the elf's head. 'No. She saw through that. Leliana's a far better liar than I. Trying to outplay her would be stupid.'

Ringil released a long breath. 'So you just threatened her?'

'No, _mon amore_.' A wicked note entered Zevran's voice. 'I told her the _truth_.'

Mildly amused, Ringil's lips split in a smile, vanished quickly. 'But she'll come after us anyway.'

'Naturally. Leliana's a feisty one.' Zevran chuckled. 'She even sent a tail right after I left the building.'

Ringil looked down, watching the elf. 'You killed him?'

'Of course, what a silly question.' Zevran feigned hurt, though not all of it might've been fake. 'I left him with an opened throat in a small Chantry building at the edge of the city.'

'How theatrical of you. I've never thought you one for needless drama in that regard, Zev.'

'Oh, you know. I like to send a clear message. We'll drown the Chantry in blood should they dare to follow us. A bloody crusade of sexual encounters and nightly stabbings throughout all Thedas.'

'I'm touched. All the deep underlying philosophy. How thrilling.'

With a dancer's grace, Zevran flipped on his stomach. Kissed Ringil's pelvis in a downwards angling curve, then nibbled at the soft flesh with his teeth, teasingly. Placing his cheek on Ringil's limp prick he said, 'I aim to please.' Then took Ringil's pallid hand and planted a soft, heated mark with his lips on Ringil's knuckles before rising out of the damp velvet-covered bed.

Ringil sat up himself, back leaning against the wall behind him.

Mouth and lips dry as if a sandstorm had torn through them during their flesh-to-flesh dance, Ringil picked up a bottle of spiced red wine. A soft midsummer breeze entered through the opened balcony doors. His hairs rose, erect. The cream-coloured drapes stirred languidly like ghosts. Regardless, the rancid smell of pipe weed and burnt herbs lingered in some obscure spot, making Ringil's eyes bleary.

Ringil joined the former member of the House of Crows on the balcony, both of them nude. The overcast sky was pierced only by a few silvery lances. But even after the twelfth bell had rung the second time, the streets were filled with people, lively and enjoying a night of self-indulgence, seeking joy among equally inebriated company and solace in convulsing encounters of the flesh.

With his elbows braced on the balustrade, Ringil looked beyond the edge of the town. At the forest of pavilion tents and wooden constructs.

'You ready?' He asked, indicating with his head.

Zevran followed his gaze. 'Always.'

Across the courtyard of the brothel a whore looked at them, one level lower. She started to giggle and waved at them.

Zevran posed for the girl.

Ringil flipped her the finger.

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**.**

Scroll in his hand to add to the look of inflated pomposity, the enunciator shouted, 'Ser Pheuduellorin of Illryn Fields, knight graduate of the _Academie des Chevaliers_.'

With a bemused expression at his forged alias, Ringil entered the arena. He was the last to enter, as a sign of honour no doubt, peppered with the misled belief of those who'd generously financed the Grand Tourney of the Free Marches that they might be able to crawl into his good graces with a bit of arse licking. No other pretend chevalier partook in the tournament, after all. Neither did a real one.

Ringil enjoyed to play the pariah-laced role, it suited him like a second skin and conjured a devious smirk onto his features.

Ringil cast a glance, observing the contestants. His pale eyes narrowed, spotting Zevran, twenty paces to his left.

In the background, the enunciator announced some important nobleman and noblewomen, dignitaries and worthies to hold their expertly crafted speeches, trimmed to entice the plebeian crowd and gain the peasantry's favour for another year. Whilst the good folk of the Free Marches pretended to be of civilised manner and virtuous in their daily deeds of faith in the Maker, they still craved for a spectacle in the end, a bloody one in this instance. Paying to see strangers slaughter each other in an arena. Once a year, so the Maker might forgive them this surely small sin.

Ringil spat on the ground.

One hundred desperate men and women, no noble knights or famed swordsmen, ready to wage their lives for the fat purse awaiting the victor. Some were even clad in nothing but old rags, armed with only a shiv. Ringil seriously doubted the claim that everyone here participated voluntarily. He wouldn't be surprised if a part of the wild mix of contestants would be politically bested opponents of some noble family or someone convicted to death. The flash of empathy, Ringil crushed like embers of pipe weed under his heel.

A horn blared. The crowd subsided into a muffled frenzy of hushed activity. And, finally, the enunciator bellowed, 'Begin!'

With screams and yells, in some cases to cloak the sobs and terrified expressions of horror, one hundred armed men and women charged each other with zeal. Ninety eight of them condemned to death, thought they didn't know that. Yet.

Sure to let the edge scrape against his scabbard, Ringil shipped his dwarven sihil in a wide arc. Careful that every contestant would see the shining silverite from which the blade was forged. Among other alloys, he didn't rightly know or claimed expertise on the matter of dwarven smith craft.

None dared approach him. But Ringil wasn't content to idly wait around whilst Zevran was out there, fighting for his life. Even against such pathetic amateurs. They'd nothing left to lose, after all, only their lives. That made everyone dangerous, backed against a corner.

He started at a light jog, leftwards. One contestant saw him coming. The terror written onto his face, his limbs were shaking in a laughable fashion. He swung his sword, wild and wide. Ringil sidestepped smoothly, ducked under the swing and, without breaking stride, slashed open the entire length of the man's thigh. He screeched, fell, convulsed in pain, then nothing.

Ringil moved on. A whirlwind of rage and steel. Blood shed from his enemies warmed his skin. The dwarven sihil hissed with a life of its own, performing unnecessary motions and tricks. The roar of the crowd pleased Ringil in a twisted way. He left a trail of dismembered corpses and limbs. Like some macabre puppet-show gone horribly wrong.

Ringil's ears, strained to a painful limit fuelled by adrenalin and the Taint cursing through his veins, picked up a sound behind him, the shifting of earth underneath footsteps.

Ringil waited, pretending ignorance. A blade, splitting the air with a hollow hiss. Ringil pirouetted away, his one-edged longsword following the movement, aiming for the gut.

Fully turned around, his heart stopped. Zevran stood before him. Stumbled back one uncertain step at a time. Bowed and clutching his stomach. Then he smirked.

Fucking useless elf-whore born bastard.

The elven assassin laughed at his peril before he spun around, deflected a downward cutting strike and with two quick upward motions punctured the woman's lung and sliced open her throat.

Ringil stayed with Zevran at his back. The nimble elf darted left and right whenever Ringil found himself otherwise occupied. Together they waded in the blood of dozens, like the wrath of ancient gods, disgruntled by mortal Man's base games and selfish desires.

Ringil's dwarven crafted blade flickered left and right. Enemies fell before him, attacks weren't blocked, but deflected. Even more preferable, avoided altogether, an intricate dance he knew well.

At the wet sucking noise of flesh and bone crushed under metal, Zevran and Ringil darted around at the same heartbeat. Ringil managed to fling his tiring body out of harm's way. But even while doing so, he ascertained that Zevran would be too slow.

Ringil cried out.

In vain.

The massive mace hit the lean elf, right in the torso. Bone splintered audibly under his leathern cuirass. His unconscious body was flung a few metres before it dully thumped onto the ground, unmoving and completely motionless.

No smirk.

No snide remark.

Ringil couldn't bear to look any longer.

The tight sense of unfairness, of shock fed him an obscure strength and dislodged a junk of his patience for this twisted tourney. Loss turned into white-hot anger, lust into a clinical detachment and there, suddenly, the raging echo of blood spilled as it sung to him, whispered to him. The entire arena was covered in it. He'd just have to pluck it up, feed on the power it bore and utter an arcane incantation under his breath and every living soul present would wail in unintelligibly agony as their own blood boiled, fusing flesh and bone.

The armoured giant took an earth-shaking step, stance broad. The entire crowd had grown silent. Only two contestants remained alive.

His mortal fiend aimed the massive two-handed weapon skyward and roared, certain of his dominance.

Inside Ringil something feral awoke. They locked gazes. Ringil's flicker of a look was a lash. The mountain of a man grew quiet, like everything else.

Ringil spurred into movement. His dwarven sihil flashed a bright silver in the cloud-dimmed sun. The blade drove through plate armour like through air, and before the giant could even fully raise his mace, Ringil had split him open from crotch to chin.

Blood flowed out in cascades, like a torrential river.

The crowd cheered.

Ringil raced to Zevran's side.

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_Let it be said that I hate the cliche that fantasy characters must have unspeakable and unreadable names in order to be special. This was my way of showing that._

_Thanks for reading!_


	8. The Doings Of Proper Men

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

Warning: _this chapter will contain explicit content. This time for real. I guess. Also, some of you might find parts of this chapter disturbing, so if you're easily disturbed, I'd advise you to skip this chapter. Just as a fair warning. There's nothing like torture or rape, just a glimpse at the dark and seriously fucked up world these characters live in. What some have to do to survive and the burdens and pains they have to suffer in order to accomplish that._

_I couldn't leave you hanging like that, not after the last chapter. So, this chapter will pick up directly where we left off. _

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter VIII**

**The Doings Of Proper Men**

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Ringil gasped awake.

The sudden wakefulness diluted by wrongness. He fondled around the sheets, sifting through the layers of velvet.

His eyes shot open wide. A hammering in his chest, sweat suddenly clung to his skin, taking on a feverish sheen.

Gone. Zevran wasn't besides him.

Ringil rubbed rheum from his eyes, trying to drive away the daze choking his fumbling mind. Achieving only mild success as a result. Instead, he only rubbed the rinse his skin emitted into his eyes, stinging like salt water.

Ringil sighed, reaching a place of doubtful respite as his metabolism slowed to normal. Anger contained only by his current inability to do anything that'd change the situation simmered just under his skin, heated. Ready to be unshackled and burst forth at a moment's notice.

_Even through bones cracked and organs beneath most likely bruised, the elf managed a tense smile. 'Don't worry, _mon amore_, just a scratch,' he said, coughing. Just before the town's elderly herbalist – a former battlefield surgeon, or so he said – pushed Ringil out of the room, shouting profanities. His few wiry strands of pale hair standing every which way possible. The man looking like a rabid, haired toad named Humbal Quist threw the door shut. Ringil waited for an elusive amount of heartbeats stretching eternally until he finally rejected the idea of kicking the door in._

Ringil swung himself out of bed, bare feet touching the plush carpeted floor. He glared at the thick purse, tried to flay the thick leather skin and melt the golden sovereigns beneath to slack. Bitter and vile, the taste of wormwood in his mouth, Ringil contemplated.

He shrugged on his clothes, stuffed his wooden pipe with Antivan weed and prowled out onto the balcony, lit it. Ringil paced the entire length of it, left and right, right and left. All the while drawing on his pipe as if his continued survival and mental stability depended on the influx of the hazardous, addictive tobacco.

Ringil froze. Cocked his head, strained his hearing. A knock at the door startled him.

A girl of disputable age stood in the frame, looking up at him, eyes filled with a concoction of wonder and fear. An intoxicating elixir, that combination.

She flashed her long, elegantly curved eyelashes at him. 'There's someone for you, ser. Downstairs.'

'Who?'

The girl shrugged, smiling. 'A pretty lady.'

'Right.' He coughed. 'I'll be down in a bit.'

The girl bobbed her heart-shaped face, turned to go. Hesitated. Threw what she probably thought to be a seductive look over her slender shoulder.

'Is it true what they say?'

'What do they say?' Ringil said, uninterested.

'That you were the one who killed one hundred men at the tournament.'

Ringil regarded her. 'Some,' he admitted. 'Not all of them. No. Just some.'

Faster than he'd anticipated, the girl darted inside, threw the door shut. His hands came up to repel her with a Qunari empty-hand technique. Ringil at first thought she'd draw a knife and try to stab him. Perhaps she knew someone he'd killed during the tourney.

Nothing like that.

With surprising strength in her slim arms she pushed him into the room, against the wall. Her breathing was uncontrolled, erratic. Overwhelmed, Ringil arched a brow at the scene unfolding before him.

The girl of disputable age went down on her knees. Unlaced his breeches and pulled them down, exposing Ringil. Eyes wide, she peered up at him, an undecipherable maelstrom of emotion diluted by lust and need whirling in them. Her fine-boned fingers wrapped around his member, massaging, kneading, stroking.

Ringil made an effort. 'What are you doing?'

Her hands continued their motion enthusiastically. 'I've never had a proper man you see,' she said, voice husky and laden. 'Pigs, all of them, you know. Fat. Ugly. Hairy. Dirty.' Her demeanour turned desperate, spiteful. 'And the things they do to me. No proper man should.'

Ringil felt something stirring inside of him. His flaccid cock had yet to react. The girl seemed to realise the fact at the same heartbeat. Positioned her hands, her head going down. Breath hot on Ringil's skin.

Ringil hooked his thumb under her chin. Pushed her face back before she could take him in her mouth. Fear flushed her expression.

'Don't,' he said. Threw her to the side. The girl yelped, absorbed the descent with her arms.

Ringil plucked up his breeches, laced them together and opened the door. He gestured the girl out, but she didn't react. On her knees, she sprawled on the floor in a lost fashion, staring at him with watery eyes.

'So it's true what Vess said.' She hit him with an unpleasant flicker in her gaze, unsuited for a girl her age. 'You'd rather suck a man.'

Ringil effortlessly hoisted her to her feet, guided her to the still opened door and out the room.

'I'm just not a proper man either.'

'You aren't.' Something softened. 'Maybe you aren't.'

The girl vanished around a corner.

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Perplexed beyond abandon, Ringil didn't move. Just stood, motionless, gaze empty and far away. Sense had just went out the balcony door and threw itself over the balustrade and down in the overgrown courtyard.

He contemplated arming himself to meet this illusive _pretty lady_ downstairs. Refrained, in the end, anxious what he might do when provoked even in the slightest. Ringil choose a compromise. Everything scraped raw, Ringil walked down into the brothel's main room. Covered in deep red velvet, small loges isolated by thin curtains and providing a sense of privacy if required. Rancid curlicues of smoke lingered in the air. Goblets littered the entire place, some filled with sweet ale, some with sour vintage.

In front of one said loge, curtains drawn close, three armed guards waited.

Outfitted in expensive leathers and silk shawls draped over elaborately emblazoned cuirasses they regarded the entire place with a cool demeanour, hands on the pommels of their sheathed tulwars. As if there weren't scantily clad or, from time to time, whores without a degree of modesty bustling past them everywhere.

The worn and richly smelling leather couches and sofas in the immediate vicinity were filled to brim with an entire entourage of ladies-in-waiting. Cackling like a cage full of chicken about the prostitutes and the suitors present.

They quieted upon spotting Ringil. A twang of dull satisfaction cursed through him at the reaction.

Ringil approached the fancy guard trio.

The one up front, a svelte woman with a toned physique, features chiselled from something far harder than mere stone, eyes dark, nearly black, she stood nearly as tall as Ringil.

'Arms up,' she commanded. Waited just out of his reach.

Ringil layered on a decidedly bored look. 'Whoever you're working for. She should know I've no patience for things like this.'

She didn't budge, held his gaze, impressively. 'Arms up,' she pressed.

The presence of the dragon tooth dagger hidden in his sleeve conjured an ugly smile on his lips. Ringil peered around elaborately. 'If you've come to this brothel to die. Then, so be it. Just say so.'

No one answered. Even the whores and proprietors grew still. As if afraid to shatter the tension into violent relief. Ringil wouldn't mind. The guardswoman regarded him icily. Dark eyes flat, Ringil realised that he stood opposite a kindred soul. She'd be the first to go, the biggest danger.

'Master Pheuduellorin.' A husky voice called out to him from behind the half-transparent curtains. The reddish light of the lanterns inside the loge threw a hint of enticing curves onto the fabric. 'There'll be no need to search the good knight graduate, Eila. Thank you.' The stern woman, Eila, stepped clear. 'Join me, good ser.'

Ringil sneered at the theatricality of the entire situation, completely staged, but managed to find a modicum of patience, peeled it off his temper, separating one from the other and shrouded himself in it.

The pretty lady was . . . pretty, indeed. Probably breath-taking to most. Middle-aged, but aged very well. Her garment flowed around her curved body like water, at times hugging her flesh like a lover in the final orgasmic throes at other times leaving more open to imagination. Lines of kohl etched her eyes, giving them an enigmatic sense of smoky knowledge befitting more of a steppe shaman or a fortune teller.

Ringil sat down, leaned back into an entirely manufactured poise of calm. 'What do you want?'

Legs crossed like a proper lady, torso angled just a few degrees away from him, she regarded him for a while, her gaze roaming. 'How about your real name. For starters.'

Ringil knew that he grew suspiciously still. He also knew that she picked up on the fact. Seeing no reason to lie, he said, 'Ringil.'

She arched a finely manicured eyebrow, probably in recognition of the name, but not entirely convinced. 'Very well. At least, this one's short.' She appeared satisfied. 'I am Ishil Temammaralian of the grand merchant house of Temammaralian of Antiva City.'

'A merchant-princess. To what do I owe the honour?'

She blinked at him. 'Glib one, are you? No need to tongue my crack, Master Ringil. I'm already sold.'

Ringil sighed, patience thinning. 'Sold on what?'

'You.'

'Me?'

'Yes. Does that come as a surprise?'

Ringil laughed, checked his fingernails, a gesture he'd copied from someone a very long time ago. 'Look at me,' he said, indicating his features. 'What do you see?'

'A man hardened by most terrible deeds done and seen.' She nodded. 'Just like dear Eila, outside.'

Ringil snorted. 'What you see. Is a monster. A mutant. A degenerate.' He waved it aside. 'Take your pick. I don't care. Now kindly show yourself out of here.'

'Won't you even hear my offer, Master Ringil?'

'What's to hear? You were at the tourney. What's with the surprised look? I'm attentive. I saw you. And you saw me kill. Out of some twisted and fucked up reason you think it wise to have me around and mistake me for a two-bit thug for hire.' Ringil scratched his cheek, purporting to be in thought. He mimicked her tone. 'But, tell you what. You already have one. Just out there, dear Eila. So get out of my hair and back to whatever the fuck you usually do on a warm midsummer eve.'

Ishil smiled at him. 'Actually, it was Eila who advised me to approach you.' Now ain't that something new. Even to him the world proved full of delightful surprises.

Ringil frowned, the perplexed sensation returning for the second time that evening.

'You might think I've nothing to offer. But the truth is the exact opposite.' She laced her fingers together, placed them in her lap. 'Do not misunderstand me. I am offering you payment to kill. And to protect. But I'm also offering you help.'

The mortar of his patience crumbled, the concrete holding him back cracking in places. Ringil growled, 'Help?'

'For your friend. The elf.' Her nostrils flared. 'You see, I'm attentive, too.'

Ishil leaned back a bit, a careful mask slid over her features, a schooled reaction when unsettled, Ringil had seen it countless times with countless nobles. She must've deciphered something in the burning echo of his gaze. But she bore the brunt, the lapping waves gnawing at weathered stone until only a shore remained.

'How,' Ringil pressed out, strained.

'There's a skilled healer among my company. He'll tend to your friend and then both of you can escort me and those under my employ back to Antiva City. Once there.' She shrugged, delicately. 'We'll see.'

'He's already being attended to. So, no. I'm going to have to decline your generous blade-contract, oh exotic merchant-princess.'

She smiled at him, differently. Ringil wondered how many weapons her arsenal of smiles contained. 'You misunderstand again,' said Ishil, slowly. 'When I said healer. I meant sorcerer.'

Well, by Andraste's sweet cunt.

Just what he needed.

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_Things are moving into the realm of AU. Territory I so very much love. _

_Also, Pheuduellorin is back. Yay. Of course, I didn't kill off Zevran. Not yet, at least. Everyone's fair game to me, just so you can prepare yourself for the eventual heartbreak. I'll drink your tears._

_Thanks for reading!_


	9. The Chains Of Fate Rattle

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_A shorter chapter than usual, I know. I apologize. For that and for my absence. Just wanted to let you all know I am still among the living, as is this story._

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter IX**

**The Chains Of Fate Rattle**

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Leliana shuffled towards the steps, in a sleep-walker's daze. Her sense of right and wrong, the values and beliefs balancing and guiding her life disconnected in a severely bended way. Everything turned upside down. Queasy and unbalanced like a cripple with disfigured legs she walked like a drunkard over a sloping ship's deck in the heaviest of storms.

She bumped against the plank, fell over into the sea, reached the steps and clutched to them like a drowning sailor to a drifting piece of log. Desperation laced with a self-deluded hope that she might reach land, find shelter and everything would return to normal. Better. As it should be. Balanced, with dirt underneath her feet to nurture and flourish on.

One dragging step at a time, Leliana troubled herself up to the middle of the stairwell. A guiding hand placed against the wall on her right. A measure of safety to find a way out of this tangled labyrinth.

Her legs gave out. She collapsed, sacking against the wall. A sob-like intake of air escaped her.

Grasping at the dimmed straws of her receding faith, Leliana intoned a silent prayer. May He grant her the strength to tread the perilous path ahead. So easy to slip. So easy to fall, descend into nothingness. Swallowed up by the yawing abyss.

It didn't help. Something inside her folded, broke. Leliana snapped her hands to her mouth, cupping it. Pain flared up in her right hand, the broken bone protesting at the abuse. Preventing the hysterical sobs from escaping, her shoulders shook with flinching anger, hurt, despair and sadness. Her wobbly legs drew up, her head down, Leliana curled into a ball. Still shushing her sobs as best she could to thwart the sound from drifting down into the dungeon and reach Ringil's motionless form, still sprawled on his back where she'd left him.

How could anyone believe in the Maker and his vigilance over his mortal subjects when everything the world offered was nothing but darkness. How could she continue to do so? Cling to her waning belief?

Her mind returned to the brief display of past affection Ringil uttered in his last moments before he thought death would find him.

_'__Lel.' _

Something'd fluttered inside of her, an old flame she'd thought long put out, smothered by the pain of the certainty that the flame would never grow into a blazing fire.

From a place of doubtful validity a sliver of strength arrived, carried by a distant-sounding voice. The layers arose, folding around her being. Leliana surrounded herself with the isolated parts of herself, her tattered emotions moulding into a layer, hardening into an armoured carapace.

Grappling herself up by the notches and crooks in the cold stone walls surrounding her, Leliana slowly rose with acceptable dignity.

She reached the door, leading to the Chantry's main hall. Muffled voices carried through, in heated debate.

'We cannot leave her down there with that . . . with . . .' Cullen coughed. 'With him.'

'You shouldn't even have let her down there. He was practically shining with sorcery.' Vivienne, imperious as ever. 'Like a falling star. You are a templar, after all. Are you not?'

'I'm not any longer!'

'Please,' Mother Giselle placated. 'This struggle is of no use. If Sister Leliana went down there, then we have to trust her judgement.'

'Trust her?' Josephine, sounding indignant. 'I'd have never thought I'd have to school Leliana on the delicacy of such a situation. If the Hero of Ferelden comes to the Inquisition, there are certain protocols to be followed.' The audible sigh of the ambassador brought a slight smile to Leliana's lips.

Pressing her shoulder against it, she pushed open the door. The bickering was shunned into immediate silence, heads turned. Then gasps filled the still room.

All of them, they rushed to her side, braced her, rescued her from stumbling, falling into unconsciousness.

Cullen peered at her, thunderclouds darkening his eyes. He growled. 'What did he do.' It wasn't a question. He didn't want to know. Not really. He just needed a reason for violence.

'It's . . .' Leliana gulped, her throat hurting. 'Nothing.'

Vivienne removed Leliana's hand from her own throat, exposing the skin pulsing with heat underneath. 'Nothing doesn't look like blue and black storm clouds, my dear.'

Concerned, Josephine peered at her. 'Are you alright?'

'I'm fine. I just need to rest.'

Out of somewhere the concerned figures around her conjured up a wooden chair. Eased her onto it with gentle pressure. Josephine went off in search for medical supplies and someone capable of putting them to use.

Cullen and Vivienne shared a strange look. Then the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall approached the door leading down into the dungeon. Uncompromising fire in his eyes, Vivienne just a step behind with her elegant staff clutched firmly.

Leliana stretched out her healthy arm, making a sound of protest. Both of them, strangely agreeing on something for a change, looked at her effort, surprised enough to stop in their tracks.

Feebly, Leliana managed, 'I forbid it.'

Surprise turned into shocked silence. Both of them stared at her, unsure.

'I will not let this . . . monster roam free,' Cullen said. 'Or alive. For the matter.'

'I concur.' Vivienne cocked her hip, head bobbing up and down. 'The Inquisition cannot stand for this. He must be punished. An example set. No one should be allowed to lay hand on us. Not even a hero.'

'You know nothing,' croaked Leliana. 'Both of you. Do not understand.' She let out a rattling sigh. 'I forbid it.'

Cullen lowered himself to her eye-level. 'Why?'

'I will tell you. In due time. But not now. It hurts.' He looked apologetic, features softening. 'For now we'll have to just leave him alone. You must trust me in this.'

'And what if–'

'He won't,' Leliana intercepted Cullen's rising objection. 'He's no harm to any of us any longer. He was misled.' Leliana coughed. Cullen steadied her. 'Give him time. I beg of you. Please, Cullen.'

'Very well.'

Leliana felt herself slipping. 'Make sure nobody goes down there. Unless they have a death wish.'

Everything blurred.

Darkness took her.

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_Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it. Reviews make me happy. Can't promise that more will follow soon. Sorry._


	10. Blood With Blood

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_Changes were made to previous chapters regarding lyrium. Because in my AU adaptation lyrium isn't actually used to enhance magic but rather to fight it. Never understood how mages could use it to cast more spells or spells of more power and the templars use it as a means to gain resistance against magic._

_So, to spell it out, in my story lyrium is anathema to magic._

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter X**

**Blood With Blood**

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The hesitance of the ferryman and the shouts penetrating even the thick doors of the tower supported Alistair's queasy state of mind. Wrongness tinged the very air.

Like a slab of moving stone, emotionless to the distraught surrounding them, Ringil pushed open the twin set of wooden doors with a single push.

Templars in full plate armour turned at the creaking sound, lyrium-reinforced shields raised and blades drawn. Within a matter of a few heartbeats the templars nearest to the entrance banded together and expertly formed a wall of steel.

Alistair blinked at their reaction. That Ringil somehow managed to unsheathe his longsword faster than the templars' reaction didn't do anything to soothe the tense situation.

Both sides stared at each other, silently.

Clamour from deeper within the Circle of Magi and the shield wall parted. An elderly figure stepped to the front, pushing down raised weapons with both his arms. Alistair spotted the insignia on his armour, marking him as knight-commander. He carried himself well, albeit a bit hunched as if the weight of steel plates dragged his shoulders down.

'What is the meaning of this!' The knight-commander shouted, not even at the front of the templars' ranks. 'No one was supposed to be-'

He stopped dead in his tracks, stared at Ringil with a turmoil of unconcealed emotion. His skin turned the colour of dry parchment.

'I see,' he said, clipped. 'What do you want, freak?'

Alistair frowned, thoughts halting at how the knight-commander addressed Ringil.

Ringil disregarded the slight. 'We come to you in a time of great need, Knight-Commander Greagoir. The Blight ravages the lands of Ferelden and by the tithes signed after the First Blight I hereby demand the support of the magi and the templars.'

'You demand?'

'As is my right, knight-commander.'

Greagoir scoffed. 'Be that as it may, I fear you'll find no support for your cause here. The Circle has fallen to the machinations of maleficarum.' He gestured around. 'What you see here before you are all that survive of my men.'

At a hand sign of the knight-commander, the rallied templars dispersed and went back to their immediate duties. Their weary group stepped further into the foyer, a makeshift infirmary at the moment. Moans and pleas crowded the otherwise silent hall.

'So the Circle has been annulled?' Ringil asked.

Greagoir gave a tired laugh. 'Far from it. I am sure there are many blood mages still stalking these halls once filled with the faithful.'

'You haven't routed them?'

The knight-commander stared strangely at Ringil, grabbed his elbow and steered him into a quiet corner. Alistair followed hesitantly, feeling like an intruder. Ringil looked over at him, beckoned Alistair closer.

'Look around you,' Greagoir hissed, low. 'My men are dead on their feet. Without knowing what lingers beyond these doors I will not simply send them to their deaths.'

Ringil gazed around lazily. 'Is that not their duty, knight-commander?'

The knight-commander grew visibly agitated, let out a growl. Again, Ringil ignored his reaction. 'You are waiting for reinforcements from Denerim, yes?'

'Correct,' Greagoir pressed out between tight lips and bared teeth.

'How long till they arrive?'

'A few days. Maybe a week.'

Running his tongue over his teeth, Ringil slowly shook his head. 'Give me permission to enter, knight-commander. My companions and I shall purge every blood mage. In response the templars shall vow their allegiance to the Grey Wardens in the battles against the Darkspawn to come. You'll have no charges to look over, after all.'

Greagoir mulled it over. His sunken eyes darted around. With a dirtied hand he combed through his dishevelled hair.

'Maker fend,' he breathed. 'Very well. The templars will fight for the Wardens.'

'Good,' Ringil said, flatly. 'But I expect more than this sad bunch, knight-commander. You'd better be able to convince the Grand Cleric.'

Greagoir nodded tiredly. 'Now get out of my sight, Ringil.' With that he dismissed them and walked away, shoulders even more hunched than before.

Alistair up until now able to contain the pool of questions bubbling up in his mind, spoke up, 'You two know each other?'

Ringil gestured the rest of their group over. 'Yes. We met a few years back.'

Ringil, forthcoming as ever. Alistair decided to dig deeper. 'He called you, uh, freak.' Alistair rubbed his neck. 'Why?'

Ringil rested his flat gaze on Alistair. 'Greagoir never was fond of my presence.' And, there, in those inhumanly pale eyes Alistair found an answer that revealed more than words ever could.

Silver fountains, endless and absorbing, so cold, never disturbed by what they witnessed.

Leliana arrived at Alistair's side, touching his arm she peered up at him with concern. He placated her with a false smile.

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With a sense of finality, the door closed shut behind the group of five. The sickening stench of freshly spilled blood filled the air.

Ringil led the group through the empty hallways and rooms of the apprentice quarters, his unshipped longsword languidly held at his side. The hulking, copper-skinned frame of Sten just a step behind, hefting his massive broadsword. Morrigan, secluded from the rest of the group, sifted through the odd trinket lying around and occasionally drove her fingers over leather-bound tomes. Alistair and Leliana formed the rearguard but also to entertain a hushed conversation.

'We cannot stand for this, Alistair,' said Leliana, leaning towards him. Her scent wafted up and entered Alistair's nose. Everything seemed better right now than the coppery smell of blood used for dark rituals and dangerous incantations, even the scent of female sweat and the tang of oil Leliana used to keep her leathers supple.

'But if they turned to blood magic and let themselves be possessed by demons than there's nothing we can do, Leliana.'

'I will not believe that there isn't at least a single soul in here that did not.'

'What if you're wrong?'

Conviction oozed into her calm answer. 'I am not.'

'I hope so,' said Alistair.

All of them covered themselves in the solace of silence until they happened upon a group of ragged apprentices, sprawled on the floor, trying to catch their breath and regain their energy. A bony looking woman spotted them first. Alistair wasn't even sure if she'd any flesh underneath those clothes left, so sickly she looked, so old and weary.

The elderly enchanter whirled around, dimly glowing staff aimed towards them. Alistair recognised her from Ostagar. Wynne, one of the healer's cadre.

She spotted him in return, relaxed her stance. 'Alistair, what are you-'

Her head parted from her shoulders in a spurt of blood. Screams of terror echoed up onto the high ceiling and bounced back down, the youthful apprentices wailed their shock.

Ringil had crossed the distance in a heartbeat, his blade too fast to see.

The rest of them fell quickly underneath Ringil's mercilessly guided blade. Some of them barely adults, others children not older than nine summers, it didn't matter.

Alistair could only stare, as much in shock as the dead flapping out their last electrical pulses cursing through their nervous systems.

Leliana recovered quicker. 'What have you done! They clearly weren't possessed by demons.' She pointed, accusingly. 'They were children!'

Ringil wiped the blood off his blade with the hem of a magi's robe, the girl's throat opened, still gurgling.

'It matters not. Not any longer.'

'How can you say such a thing!'

Ringil went on, calmly, as if Leliana weren't screaming at him. 'Even the threat suffices for the templars to call for an annulment of the Circle.' He shrugged. 'Besides, there'll be too few mages left once this is finished – with or without our doing – and they'll be of no use to us against the Blight. The templars, however, are.'

Inhuman.

Freak.

Monster.

Abomination.

The whispers returned. Shared by his now fallen brothers and sisters whilst camped in Ostagar. Always silent, always behind his back.

But, now, they started to make sense.

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_Isn't Ringil a nice, easy going guy? What else can you do but fall in love with him._

_Thanks for reading!_


	11. The Things We Crave For

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_Sorry for the immensely long wait._

_Fair warning to you all, this chapter is particularly disgusting. Not only because of what happens, but also because of what is revealed. Also: you might find parts of this chapter or this entire chapter disturbing, so if you're easily disturbed, I'd advise you to skip this chapter. Don't whine afterwards._

_Still here?_

_Then try to enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter XI **

**The Things We Crave For**

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His light hair was a dishevelled mess, his eyes bloodshot and the skin beneath them darkened with the forced deprivation of sleep.

'This foul trickery again? I know what hides behind the mundane flesh you present me as your façade! It won't work! Be gone, demon!'

The young templar knelt down, closing his eyes, folding his hands in ritual prayer. A chocking cloud of lyrium dust danced like motes in the air, flashing a bright blue in lances of incoming light from the high windows.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Alistair spotted Morrigan's visible reluctance of even being present. The wilder witch put as much distance between herself and the mind-tormented templar. Even something as small as a mere particle of lyrium dust upon her skin would burn an ugly hole through her flesh and melt the bone beneath. Not to speak of inhaling a whole bunch of the grains—her organs would disintegrate inside her body, whilst she screamed her last breath in wheezing agony.

Alistair wished no mage such a fate, not even Morrigan, no matter how great his disdain for her might be. Ringil on the other hand, Alistair would've no problem with it if his Warden brother were a mage right now. The inner turmoil of outrage and disdain for his actions still raged strong in Alistair and he couldn't be sure of himself to refrain from shoving Ringil into the thick cloud of lyrium dust were he a mage. An agonising death seemed too kind in comparison to the slaughter of children and frightened apprentices downstairs. Not to forget Wynne.

Besides him, double-curved longbow clutched in a tight grip, one of her arrows nocked, Leliana didn't appear to be disinclined to Alistair's train of thought—the glowering look she'd adopted in her eyes, a churning ocean of deep blue, foaming with anger around the edges. Most likely, she'd put an arrow through the back of Ringil's neck.

But the man in question, their companion, their _leader_, walked up to the kneeling templar, unfazed of both their looks and the lyrium dust hanging in the air.

He stared down. 'Get up, boy. No demon would ever be inclined to wear a mug as ugly as mine.'

'Be silent, abomination! I spied what hides behind your eyes!' His own eyes still closed, the templar pointed in the rough direction of Ringil, and shouted, 'Nothing hides there! Nothing but an emptiness so gaping it has consumed any measure of your soul, if ever you possessed any!'

Ringil turned and said, 'Alistair, talk some sense into him.'

Retreating, Alistair spotted angry red patches of dissolved skin, exposing muscle and tendon beneath Ringil's cheekbone.

The lyrium dust.

It sank in.

_Impossible_.

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Carved up corpses decorated the interior. At the blood-spattered man's rim of his robes lay, curled in a foetal ball, an old man, mutilated, his eyes clawed out, he wept blood from empty sockets.

Dead eyes tracked them as they fanned out.

'Ah, I was wondering who'd entered the Tower and started butchering my colleagues.'

'Must be providence that we arrived,' said Ringil.

The man chuckled, apparently amused despite the situation. He cocked his bald head at an angle far beyond humanly possible. His eerie smile exposed a reptile tongue, licking blood off his chin. He plopped one of the dead eyes he'd tracked them with into his mouth in a morbid display and started munching, all the while keeping his smile.

He gulped down what were, presumably, the remains of First Enchanter Irving's removed eyes. 'I am called Uldred. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

'That is not your name, abomination.'

'True. Merely the name of the shell I am wearing.' The man once called Uldred shrugged dismissively. 'But you mustn't hurl insults, good man. Or are you qualified to make them simply by knowing what the existence as an abomination feels like, I wonder, Pale-Eyed One. Will you indulge my curiosity? We are kindred, after all, are we not? Mistake. Freak. Degenerate. Abomination.'

The man once called Uldred laughed hysterically, nearly doubling over. 'All names I'm sure you've been called countless times. All names I'm sure you've said to yourself as you tried to find solace in sleep, yet it never came. Only your venerated Warden elders would visit you in your lonely mind, because they are the only ones who ever took an interest in your life, and the shaping of it.'

Up and down the line of their group some form of nervous shuffling and scraping occurred. Only Ringil stood motionless, flat gaze regarding the man once known as Uldred. Uncomfortable at the downright disgusting intimacy with which the demon spoke to and about Ringil, made Alistair throw a glance at Leliana, a few paces to his right. Down the line, Sten growled and hefted his massive broadsword. Leliana shook her head, a worried expression on her features.

'You might want to know how I've come upon the knowledge of the words and thoughts you lull yourself to sleep with. Well, you can thank your elders for that, as well. They are such generous donors of souls wasted in arcane rituals and in the performing of mutations. So many young men and women aspiring to become Wardens only to face death before their journey even begins. In the Fade they wander and when they happen upon me, I am more than willing to offer a shoulder for them to cry on. Even in the Fade, there is gossip, Pale-Eyed One.'

'As luck would have it, I've had the delicate pleasure to meet a few of your destined child brothers and sisters over the course of my existence. The tales they had to tell. My, O, my! They were especially frightened, taken from their parents, just like you. Trained and hardened by the elders, just like you. Altered with toxic elixiers and mutagens. And when they'd finally managed to snuff out any residual emotions from your young minds and bodies, they filled the gaping emptiness left behind with their cocks each night so that nothing else might fill the void.'

The laughter bounced off the brick walls, remote and uncaring of its echoing sharpness. Alistair felt sick, deep down, it rose from his gut and travelled up into his chest, clotting his lungs. He lowered his shield and longsword, went to one knee, and had to solely focusing on breathing.

Leliana looked like she'd been kicked in the stomach repeatedly, a dull sheen veiling her eyes. Their shared animosity for Ringil from afore left behind in a ditch, stabbed to death, and forgotten.

Sten just growled, whilst Morrigan stared at Ringil with a curious glint in her amber eyes, as if vaguely interested in what his reaction might be.

In between his fits of laughter, the man once called Uldred loudly proclaimed, 'O, how scared you all were! Yet did nothing but silently sit, watch your brothers and sisters get violated, and await your turn for your elders' loving attention. How you craved to be filled with something you could share with the others! And still it is so, I can see it, even beyond your flat eyes. You still crave your own, twisted version of normality, of not being chosen, of not having a bunch of old farts telling you about destiny and destiny's plan for you to suck their cocks!'

In his maniacal laughter, the skin stretching over the face of the man once called Uldred split open and revealed a chitinous layer underneath. Bones cracked, twisted, and grew longer and thicker. His fingers turned into sharp claws and soon the human flesh which had only been a shell worn by the demon of pride, sagged away in spurts of blood and revealed the true nature of the abomination hiding beneath.

'Look well upon the monster in your midst, mortals. For it is not I of whom I speak.'

'You talk much,' said Ringil, with no more emotion than when he empied his pipe tobacco.

He gestured, drew a complex sign in the air, and uttered something under his breath. The blood, seemingly covering every recess in between stone and mortar inside the room, began to rise up from the floor in single drops. It sung a terrible song as it travelled to Ringil and encircled him in a maelstrom of power.

'Your brain is molten iron,' said Ringil.

The Pride Demon started to cry in blood-chilling terror and imagined agony. It began to tear at its face with its claws trying to carve out the non-existent brain of molten iron. Ringil stood silent, watching as the demon sliced its own face to bloody pulp and its cries of pain turned to bawling sobs of raw fear.

Nearly headless, it died, its massive bulk crushing the curled form of First Enchanter Irving to fleshy paste.

Leliana emptied her stomach besides him and Alistair couldn't hold back his own nausea much longer.

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_Can you trust the word of a demon?_

_Thanks for reading._


	12. A Warring Against Futility

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_Here, have another one. Less brutal, this time. More talking_—_more insight into Ringil._

_I, furthermore, wish you all a premature Happy New Year!_

_Enjoy._

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**The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon **

**Chapter XII **

**A Warring Against Futility**

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Winter approached with fast strides.

At the sight of the full moon, lingering high on the canopy, showering the forested landscape of the Bannorn in a silvery sheen, wolves howled their prayers in the distance.

Alistair attempted to snuggle deeper into his travelling cloak and the ramskin pelt he'd thrown over his shoulders. The heat he'd gathered back at the fire waned quickly in the cold night air. Because of the sudden passage from blissful heat to biting cold, the tips of his fingers already prickled with approaching numbness.

Languidly, snowflakes drifted down in complete silence, covering the ground in a thin blanket. The crunch of his boots the only companion keeping pace with Alistair's every step, out of the clearing of their camp, and deeper into the light forest towards a small pond. By the sounds drifting up to Alistair it seemed as if a family of frogs had made their own, permanent camp there.

They quieted as he approached.

Dull chainmail, washed out leather armour, and worn clothes rested, neatly folded, on a large boulder at the edge of the pond.

Ringil stood with his scar-littered back to Alistair, waist-deep submerged under the calm surface of the pond. Tendrils of steam rose from his pale body, skin seemingly glowing under the moonlight which broke the absence of leaves in the canopy above. Alistair questioned how his Warden brother could even endure remaining inside at such freezing temperatures for more than a few heartbeats. Much less, without moving a single one of his lean muscles.

'You have disturbed the frogs' peace. They are afeared of your presence, brother,' said Ringil, without turning.

'I'm sorry,' Alistair blabbed out. 'I just thought we should . . . talk. You know . . .' Alistair rubbed his throat, tried clearing the lump which suddenly stuck there. 'Did you really . . . did they . . . I mean—'

'What you're meaning to ask is if I really was gang-raped by a bunch of Warden elders every night as a child, I presume?'

Something constricted inside Alistair, brought everything to a full-tilt stop, the additional layer of his cloak now a source of uncomfortable heat which seemed to radiate from his chest.

Alistair managed a grunt which Ringil took as confirmation.

'Duncan told me you were trained to become a templar. What did the instructors teach you of dealings with entities of the Fade?'

It came automatically. 'Some are benign. Others are malign. None think like humans or elves or dwarves. They are alien to us. We cannot comprehend their ways and they cannot comprehend ours. Though not for a lack of trying.'

'All true. What else?'

Alistair shivered, cold again. 'None, neither demon nor spirit, can, under any given circumstance, be fully trusted. Not ever.'

'Precisely. It might've sounded convincing. It might've even projected memories it has stolen from all the wandering and lost souls it has absorbed into your mind. Made you feel, smell, and hear. Made you believe. But that belief is not to be trusted, Alistair.'

'I see.' Alistair watched Ringil's statuesque figure. Not even ripples travelled across the pond. 'So, it was all a lie, then?'

'You could say that.'

Alistair sneered. 'And to think I felt sorry for you for a moment there.'

'There's nothing to be sorry for, brother.'

Alistair found he'd involuntarily formed a fist, grabbed the rim of his cloak instead. 'That's clear now. You murdered innocent children in cold blood. Children, Ringil. Their only offense was being born with magical talent. Just like you. But, then again, you seem to prefer the use of blood to feed your power. No wonder you're as twisted as everyone seems to think you are.'

Alistair started to walk away, snow crunching underneath. 'You're no brother of mine.'

In the distance the pack of wolves howled again. When Alistair was nearly out of earshot, Ringil's voice drifted over. 'You cannot choose your brothers, Alistair.'

Alistair returned to their small campfire with a bitter taste left in his mouth, souring everything.

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Ringil groaned a heavy sigh, breaking the calm surface of the pond's water. 'You can stop hiding in the bushes now, Leliana. He did not spot you.'

_And just _how_ did you?_

Ringil waded out of the water, uncaring of his nakedness in the moonlight. The scar tissue criss-crossing his body had turned to a raw pink in contrast to his pallid skin colour. He turned in her direction and stared right at her without the need to search for a heartbeat. His eyes were like shards cut out of the moon's surface, reflecting its silvery light right back at her.

'Why did you lie to him?'

Ringil proceeded to dry himself off. 'I did not lie, Leliana. I merely said only what he expected to hear.'

'His hatred will only fester and grow.'

'Hatred is well-known to me. I am used to it, able to work with it. It is better this way, than if he mulls over what-ifs in his head. Better for him to have a clear picture of me in his mind. It's less distracting.'

'Even if that picture is a lie?'

'Even so.' Leliana closed her eyes. The metallic cadence of his voice tore open the silence like a wound. But beneath the cold iron, beneath the stoicism, and the clinically detached calculation hid something so raw, so . . . vulnerable, it grabbed Leliana's throat. A sob rose up, wrenching her heart, but Leliana managed to abort it before she gave birth to it.

Ringil noticed nonetheless, somehow. 'There is no need to pity me, Leliana. In that regard Alistair was right. I deserve nothing of the kind. You should close this matter, as well. Resolve it however you like.'

Leliana moved from her hiding spot, closer to Ringil, wanting to see if there resided any hint of emotion on his face. 'How can you say this?'

'Why not. Hatred doesn't not make you a bad person. It doesn't tarnish your soul. It makes you no less good or worse than the next person. To feel is to live, do not fight it.'

Leliana shook her head. 'I will fight it. With every ounce of strength I have. Because it is the right thing to do. What was done to you, no one should have to endure.'

Ringil remained silent. Leliana pressed. 'The demon didn't only tell lies, did it?'

'Yes.' Again, the carefully manufactured tonality of his speech, all emotion excised. But all the emotionlessness accomplished was making it swing with such a staggering sense of vulnerability, laid bare for everyone to pick at, to mock, to deride. _To hate._

'But destiny is a harsh mistress and brokers no denial,' he added. 'One cannot blame destiny for the actions and consequences of one's life. To feel emotion about your destiny is an effort wasted in futility. To hate destiny, even more so.'

'They took you as a child.'

'It's been a long time since then.'

'And raised you to become a Grey Warden.'

He shrugged. 'I know nothing else.'

'Then I pity you, Ringil of the Grey Wardens.' Leliana wanted to say more, wanted to embrace him, and make him see that he should not have to carry his pain alone. It was a burning need inside her, but as soon as it tried to leave and take shape in reality, something dragged it back down and doused it in utter darkness as found in between stars. The burning need dimmed and froze, until the moment passed.

With a yank, Ringil tightened the last straps of his leathern vambraces. 'Another effort wasted in futility.'

He left her alone at the pond, snowflakes settling to rest all around her, in complete silence, mocking Leliana's own.

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_Tell me what you think, guys and girls. Your silence is making me bite my nails in uncertainty._

_Thanks for reading!_


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